


With Sight of You Brimming

by jailedbard (twoheadedenby)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 69, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Nonbinary Character, Other, alcohol cw, in which the author has not emotionally moved on in the slightest, takes place post-drk-70 if youre concerned about spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:37:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoheadedenby/pseuds/jailedbard
Summary: Fray can still reminisce, even now. They have too much time on their hands to do much else.





	With Sight of You Brimming

Do you remember that afternoon we spent together, Sid? We spent most of our afternoons together, of course; closer to all of them than not, but the one I’m thinking of happened… Gods, was it really three years ago now? Time is getting away from me in here, it seems.

It was the afternoon we happened upon that poor merchant, on his knees, making harried apologies to a trio of temple knights. We never had to go looking for trouble, did we? As it was you couldn’t go a stone’s throw in Ishgard without happening upon it whether you wanted to or not. For instance, this poor bastard had run afoul of the “random” searches the temple knights only ever seemed to carry out on those who had the gall to show their face in the Pillars without looking rich enough. They’d gone through his goods and decided they were of far too high a quality for him to have come by them honestly. By the time we found him, he’d already given up on the goods. He was only pleading for them to not bring him in along with them.

I was already halfway to drawing steel against them when the first of many things happened that made this day in particular stand out. You stayed my hand, and your own, telling me we ought to get this done without bloodshed. Which is bloody out of character for you, as I recall telling you at the time, loud enough that we both had to stop and check the knights hadn’t heard us. Sorry about that.

The poor sod had been through enough already, you told me, in that hushed and petulant tone you always put on when you wanted me to simmer down. We oughtn’t add witnessing a triple murder to the list. If we could avoid it, at any rate.

What happened next was a scene for the ages. You marched right up to them, all blood and thunder, spewing invective and melodrama as only you could. Those yellow-bellies put on just enough of a show that they could tell their higher-ups there was nothing more to be done before they turned tail and fled. The cowardly shites didn’t even raise their weapons to you. I could tell you were disappointed about it, even if you were following your own advice. Even as you helped the man up, you were tense and spoiling for a fight. Then again, some part of you always is.

He thanked you profusely for saving his hide, and you squirmed uncomfortably as always. Neither of us was ever in it for the gratitude. Turns out the fellow had been accosted for carrying a crate of fine Ishgardian wine, granted to him by a noble family as thanks for reuniting their lost child with them. Odds are the knights were only looking to confiscate them to liven up their nights at the barracks. The merchant hadn’t even intended to keep them; if he could turn them over at even a fraction of their value it would bring in enough money to buy his whole family new clothes for the winter.

With that in mind, both of us tried to refuse him when he pressed a bottle into your hands in payment. He needed it far more than we did, but the wonderful, infuriating thing about folk in the Brume is their damned insistence on looking out for anyone who’s looking out for them. Eventually you relented and took it from him just to get the three of us out of there before the temple knights came back with reinforcements. You almost forgot to thank him, after all of it. We saw him off to safety once we were deep enough into the Brume that the temple knights weren’t likely to come looking, and made for the Forgotten Knight.

The worst thing about starting a fight so early in the day is the sheer _boredom_ of laying low afterwards. It wasn’t the first time we’d been cooped up indoors all day, and the familiarity hardly made it any easier. Not that we didn’t enjoy each other’s company, but both of us resented the inaction.

It was a bit early in the day for it, and we both knew that, but hells. There was a long, lazy afternoon stretching out before us, we had a bottle of fine wine on our hands, and we were then as ever a pair of reckless idiots. I don’t know about you, but I took great delight in pouring wine fit for the mouth of nobles into a pair of dusty old bar glasses. It turned out to be a richly-deserved fate for the stuff, anyway.

“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but I cannot for the life of me taste the difference between this and a glass of Gibrillont’s cheapest swill.” The look of relief on your face was palpable. You’d had it all screwed up in concentration, convincing yourself that you _must_ have been missing something. That the pleasures of nobility could not be so transparently hollow. An absurdity, of course, and neither of us could help laughing that we could have ever thought otherwise.

You have a wonderful laugh, you know. I hope I told you often enough when I had the chance. That perpetual scowl you wear so well starts to crack at the seams and then all at once the joy erupts straight from your chest. It was enough of a rarity that even you seemed surprise whenever it happened, but I don’t doubt that I remember every single time I was lucky enough to bear witness. The memory brings me great comfort, even now.

Lousy though it was, wine is wine, and it couldn’t help but have the intended effect. I remember how flushed I felt (and how flushed you _looked_ ), how gracelessly we fumbled each other out of our armour. More than anything I remember collapsing onto our bed with you, in a dizzy haze that was equal parts tipsiness and love, for all that I could tell them apart in the moment. We exchanged not a word as we lay there in a messy tangle; talk felt impossibly cheap just then. We just pressed close, trying to feel every inch of each other we could. I think we both needed to remind ourselves that we really existed from time to time.

I think I was the one who got things started. I usually was. You were already showing a little before I even started fiddling with your drawers, just from the close contact and our shared body heat. Poor Sid. You never were any good at hiding your feelings. Don’t worry, though; your eagerness always went _very_ appreciated. It was the least I could do, in fact, to free you of your drawers entirely and show that appreciation in earnest.

I could always tell when you were ready. I’d stroke you nice and slowly until I could only just fit my thumb and forefinger all the way around the base and I knew the fun could _really_ start. That afternoon, it was my cue to take you into my mouth, after a truly heroic amount of manoeuvring around each other to make it possible. You never could stifle that first groan when you felt my lips around you. It’s a wonder I never let it go to my head, eh?

You’re such a rewarding lover! Gods above, it was a privilege to hear the sounds of pleasure I could elicit with just a little hard work. You never held anything back, in bed or otherwise, and I loved that about you. Love, in fact – it’s not like anything’s actually changed, after all. You’re still the man I fell in love with, and I’m still the fool who did it. I think we always will be, time apart be damned.

Sucking your cock (to say nothing of those wonderful sounds you made) was already the most fun I’d had all day, so imagine my further delight when you stopped panting long enough to ask if I wanted to open my legs for you. Always a gentleman, even in the midst of a blowjob. It took yet more awkward shifting about to find a position that worked, but you wasted no time in getting to work once the opportunity presented itself.

Do you remember the first time you tried using your tongue? You were equal parts nervous and clueless, not helped by the fact that I’d not yet figured out how to navigate those bloody great horns of yours. What a distant memory that became, and how quickly! I was only too happy to teach you what I could, and you were such a devoted student. There was nary an onze of that early hesitation in you that afternoon. You knew what you were doing and you were hellsbent on doing it.

You knew your way around me well; maybe even _too_ well. It gives me no pleasure to admit I struggled to uphold my end of the exchange before long, what with you able to ruin my concentration with a few effortless flicks and strokes. You either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, though, to judge from the muffled sounds coming from between my thighs. Did it feel as good for you when I moaned around you as it did for me when you did the same? Because swive me, just _hearing_ you like that can’t compare in the slightest to _feeling_ it running through my whole body.

You were the first to finish, but there’s no shame in that. I had gotten a headstart, after all. I couldn’t even begrudge you pulling your head away after hearing the sound of you losing yourself like that; the feeling of you writhing all around me. You made a mess, as usual, and as usual that became the problem of some future iteration of ourselves. In the present we were too intoxicated with the moment to slow down or even pay it any mind, and you had a job to finish besides.

You rolled onto your back and invited me up onto my knees, your head never too far from the task at hand. I was grateful, I’ll admit. Fun as it was, our improvised arrangement wasn’t the most comfortable I’d ever experienced. More comfortable for both of us, I wager, to have me seated over you like that. Certainly, it always seemed to be a favourite of yours. Mine too, as a matter of fact.

Between the excitement leading up to that moment and a lover well and truly in his element, I can hardly be blamed for not holding on for long. Thank the Twelve I even had enough balance left in me to lean my hands on the bed head before I came, or I think I might have tumbled off the damn thing entirely. You held on long enough to bring me through to the end, and I did my best to return the favour. It wasn’t a moment longer before I collapsed beside you, my useless legs having given up the ghost at last.

How many hours did we lie together like that afterwards? Breathless and sweaty and tangled up in each other, happy in the way we could only be in each other’s company like that. I couldn’t say, though I’d swear we scarcely budged before nightfall at the very earliest. I think that’s part of why that day stands out to me so clearly: it takes a minor miracle to keep my restless arse in one place for that long, and I’m fair sure only you could have provided it.

I hope you remember it too, Sid. I hope that day is burned as indelibly into your mind as it is mine. If you can keep that perfect afternoon alive, you can keep me alive too. We can see each other again, any time we need to. Nothing in the world could take that away from us.

You just have to remember, Sid. Take your time if you have to. I’ll be there when you do.


End file.
